Whoever told you to skip Royal Liverpool has rocks in their cabeza. One of the primary reasons to travel is soak in the history at our golfing touchstones. Putting aside the interest and originality of Hoylake's golf course - the cops for instance - you're walking in the footsteps of Harold Hilton and John Ball.
It has been quite a while, but the Club Sec at the time was Group Captain Christopher Moore, who gave me the full tour of the archives - breathtaking is the only way I can describe the collection. He could not play, but was kind enough to set me up with a couple characters who ran The Asian Golf Review - and we had huge fun.
The food is excellent (for Scotland), the members are beyond lovely and the combination of historic golf and the Beatles was hard to beat.
One warning however - for those who have seen the movie "Hard Days Night" - that affected Liverpool mumble is an unintelligible patois, known only to the local punters. The upper crusties in Liverpool speak the King's English, but pull up a barstool in any working class joint along the waterfront and best of luck.
The barmaids, you know the type - hot as fuck, but with bad teeth, plenty of tats and a perma-cig dangling from their crusty lips - are tougher than a shoe-leather steak. Tip and chat all you want, but the only thing you're taking back to the B&B is a bladder full of Guinness and banger grease on your new golf shirt.